


treasure hunting

by Magali_Dragon



Series: one shots and other drabbles [4]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Baby Jon Snow, Childhood Memories, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Fluff, Fluff without Plot, Jon Snow Needs a Hug, Sneaking Around, Soft Dany, Treasure Hunting, dany finds things from jon's past, season eight was a bad dream, soft jon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-12
Updated: 2019-12-12
Packaged: 2021-02-17 23:14:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21751294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Magali_Dragon/pseuds/Magali_Dragon
Summary: Dany can't sleep so she goes searching around Winterfell and finds some treasure.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen
Series: one shots and other drabbles [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1567705
Comments: 34
Kudos: 423





	treasure hunting

**Author's Note:**

> Where did this come from? The muse has disappeared for the time being which is why I was living in my cave, but this came to me in a meeting and here, I'll share the spoils because I don't have _anything_ else but a shitty Harry Potter universe fic and my 'Jon goes East' fic where I have major writer's block. 
> 
> This is fluff and nothing else. Enjoy.

The room where they made their _nest_ , she liked to tease since they were both dragons, was a spacious set of chambers, with a set of windows that overlooked the training yard and beyond the main gate to the road and foggy moors. It was quite nice to wake up in the morning and sit before the open shutters, watching the fog roll out as the sun attempted to rise beyond the clouds. Otherwise it was as utilitarian as all the other rooms in Winterfell, with a bedroom, sitting area, and a washroom. Each one housed great hearths, always kept roaring in the chill of the winter.

They were going on year three of winter, she mused, her dragon blood keeping her warm even when everyone around her bundled in massive furs that dwarfed their frames or kept close to any bit of fire they could. The winter was not as harsh as some of the old folk said it could have been, but she knew that they had had to stop large groups of the elderly men from going out into the wilderness, in keeping with the longtime traditions of the North to sacrifice for the young. It was a horrible tradition, one she wanted to see die, but the stubborn fools still didn't seem to understand she was there to _help_.

She sighed, still trapped beneath her furs, a line of sweat creeping along her brow. It was a bit stuffy in the bedroom, the shutters closed off and the tiny cracks of daylight making their way through the old wood. They had been there for a few days, having arrived on dragon-back, and she wanted to get started, but they were still awaiting their advisers from White Harbor, who would arrive that day.

The thoughts of the North always got to her in times like these, when she did not have anything else to occupy her mind. She thought of their traditions, steeped in survival and sacrifice and their bloody foolishness. They said they were proud people, but she thought they were just stubborn. For all her attempts to understand their mysteries, they closed ranks and shut her out, even if she was their queen. Even if they had a king. _Their king._ She sighed, glancing sideways at her king, who was fast asleep, arm slung over her chest, the top of his head barely visible under the furs. He was dead to the world, soft snores coming from his slightly ajar mouth, the raven black curls tangled on his pillow.

She sneaked a peek beneath the furs, checking to see just how asleep he was; his chest rising and falling deeply, the breath even. _Oh my sweet wolf._ She kissed the top of his head, carefully extricating herself from his arm. He made a sound in his sleep, shifting towards the vacant spot, seeking her warmth. He went for her pillow, which still smelled like her bath oils, lemons and lavender. She kissed his head again and swung her legs over the side of the bed, getting up carefully.

The robe she'd worn last night, before climbing into bed was still draped over the foot of it and she slipped on the heavy garment. It was thick brocade lined with fur, with clasps up the front. She did them up over her nightgown and pushed her feet into a pair of loose fur lined boots the Dothraki had taken to wearing when they visited this far north, padding silently out of the bedroom and into the sitting area.

Part of her wanted to just call for a servant to bring her some hot water so she could steep the spice mixture that she liked, which helped her stomach these last few months, but the other part wanted to wander a bit. It was early morning, far too early for most to be awake in the keep and she liked it when she could pretend to be _normal._ Just a regular person going into the kitchen for some hot water. Not a queen who had to have guards and advisers and everyone following her about.

Each time she wanted him to take her around the Keep, show him where he spent his time as a child, he rebuffed her. Said that he was always in the Wolfswood or the training yard, there was nothing of interest in the Keep. She'd seen the Great Hall, the library, and the crypts. That was enough. He never expanded on where he stayed as a child. She knew it wasn't in the rooms he'd been in during the Great War. Those were for the Starks and he was always quick to correct that he was not a Stark. Even as King in the North, he was not a Stark.

She opened the chamber door quietly, holding it open to allow for her guard, the silent white wolf her ever-present companion. Grey Worm turned from where he had been standing by the door and she waved her hand. "I am fine, I do not need a guard, just going to the kitchens," she told him.

He sniffed. "I am sorry my queen, I just do not trust some of these Northerners not to make a name for themselves."

As was his role as her protector, she thought, acquiescing and allowing him to accompany her. They walked silently through the stone corridors, puffs of breath escaping into the air. Ghost walked behind her. Between her sworn protector and Master of her Armies and Ghost, she was well protected. "Gods it is cold," she muttered. Despite the dragon blood, her fingers were chilled. _I should have put on gloves._

Grey Worm removed his leather gloves, passing them silently to her. She thanked him, but pressed them back to him. He needed them far more than her. She folded her hands beneath her belly, the heavy weight of it bringing some feeling back to her fingers. They made their way to the kitchens, but she wanted to keep walking. Even with some hot water and her spices, she did not think she would be able to return to sleep. The keep would start to awaken soon anyway. With less people around, she could snoop a bit, she supposed.

Grey Worm stood watching as she fussed with the hot kettle, placing her hand into the fire and waiting for it to heat before she poured the water over the spices. "Where is everyone," she wondered, looking around. She at least expected a baker or someone to be up before the sun. "I suppose we are the early risers, Grey Worm."

He barely smiled, taking the mug she had prepared. "I would prefer to do this, my queen. I do not trust them."

"Well this has not left my trunk and only I can get into it," she told him, referring to her spice pouch. She waited, pursing her lips and arching a brow, not exasperated but amused that Grey Worm insisted on testing the drink. He made a face at the taste, but nodded, satisfied that she nor her child were being poisoned. She shook her head, taking the mug. "What would I do if that had been poison? I cannot lose you, you are my dearest friend."

"You will at least be alive," he retorted.

She shrugged. "I suppose." She sipped her mug and walked around the kitchens to another corridor off the back, steps going down to another area of the castle. She cocked her head, peering into the emptiness. "I wonder where this leads."

"Servant's corridors I believe."

"I want to see." She had not been here. She wanted to see where the servants lived and made their homes. As a child she had spent many nights in accommodations similar or worse than these. She heard that Ned Stark always invited a member of the household staff to dine with him, to hear their complaints and comments about the running of Winterfell and the lands. He seemed to be quite a fair man, she could not imagine him allowing his servants to live in squalor. They were not slaves, she reminded herself, stepping into a low ceiling corridor. There were doors off the path every so many feet.

Most of the doors were open and she stepped by one, jumping back slightly, startled when a young woman hurried out, tying a kerchief around her hair. She smiled wide. "Good morning!"

The young woman, probably all of four and ten years, gasped, bowing her head immediately and almost falling to a curtsy. "Oh my gods! Yer' grace!" Her pale face went paler, practically gray. "I...I..." She stammered, unsure what to say. She immediately frowned and shook her head quickly. "You should not be here! This is servant's rooms!"

She simply smiled. "Oh I just wanted to see how you lived, please, return to your duties, I am sorry to interrupt you."

"Ah..." The woman glanced at Grey Worm, who stepped aside, allowing her passage. She stammered again and bowed. "Yer' grace...thank you...of course."

They probably all would be surprised by her, she figured, turning down another corridor. This one only had a small step down to another door, a single door that was shut. She frowned at it. It was all black, the wood chipped and cracked. As if no one had been there in some time. She nudged on it, the door creaking, handle not fully latched. She stopped where she was, looking down at the stone, her booted foot touching the flat stone, mouth falling at the carved word staring up at her.

_'JON'_

"My queen?"

"I'm fine," she whispered, clutching her hot tea mug in one hand, pushing the door open completely with the other. It barely moved on the hinges, almost rusted shut from the years of non-use. It exposed a small room, just big enough for a small cot-like bed, a desk, and a clothing chest. There was a small hearth, but it was empty of wood and blackened from ash.

_No one has used this room in years._

The floor was wood-paneled, large rough-hewn planks, whereas the little entry beyond the door was stone. The ceiling was low, exposed wooden beams giving it a slight draft. There was a single window, which she saw pointed towards the kennels. A sudden rise of fire in her throat had her gritting her teeth, her hand clenched so tight around the mug she feared she'd crush it.

_He slept with the dogs._

There was no confirmation that this was his room. Perhaps he just carved his name on the stone outside the door when he was a child, running through the halls with his brother. He rarely spoke of such things, but he said that Robb, Theon, and him were always getting into something. Usually it was Robb and Theon, and he tagged along because what else was he supposed to do? She longed to go back and hug that little boy, tell him that he was important and he did have things to do. She wished she had known him then; they were only a year apart. They would have been friends, she knew it.

She turned in a circle in the room, looking for any sign of the prior occupant. The bed had no linens on it, just a moth-eaten mattress, lined with dust. Thick layers of dust and grime rested on the window and the desk. Grey Worm peered in, frowning. She waved her hand. "I would like a moment alone here."

"Of course." He closed the door, giving her privacy and standing guard. Ghost stayed with her, sitting dutifully by the empty hearth, until he sniffed at the edge of the bed, tail swishing and settled down on the mattress. She smiled at him, ruffling his fur, wondering if he knew that he used to sleep here. 

She set the mug on the wooden piece above the hearth, and glanced to the desk. Her fingers dusted the top, scrubbing at some of the layers of disuse. There was a carving, she realized, her fingertips searching out the bumps and ridges in the wood. She blew on it, coughing when the dust kicked up. Her hand ran over the word she revealed, the writing exposed now after so long. The laugh that came out was almost a sob. "Hate Theon," she murmured. She smiled. "So sullen, even as a boy, weren't you?"

The chest called her and she tugged open the doors, staring at a couple of moth eaten tunics and gambesons. She lifted one out, brown and small, probably for a child of ten years, maybe younger. Her thumb ran over the stitching on the inside flap. "Jon," she murmured. _These were his as a child. Gods, he was so little!_ She giggled again, putting them back and closing the doors. She looked back at the desk, seeing another mark on the side. She had to crouch, turning it carefully, the desk screeching a little on the wood. The light coming in from outside was dim, but it was just enough that she could see the carving and feel with her thumb.

Tears pricked the corners of her eyes. She swallowed the lump in her throat. _My poor wolf. My poor Jon._ She hiccuped. She could just see him, sitting there at the desk, with his little whittling knife, etching in the name in a fit of despair or jealousy.

**_J O N S T A R K_ **

It was all he wanted. He just wanted to be part of something. To be part of a family.

"You are," she murmured out loud. She scowled up at the window, staring out at the kennels, speaking angrily to no one. To the ghost of a man who died keeping a secret to protect the boy, but at the same time had hurt him deeply. To the ghost of a woman who was upset with her husband and took it out on an innocent child. To the man who allowed that woman's behavior. "He was just a boy! He didn't know, he didn't do anything wrong! You treated him like nothing!"

He admitted that he was upset when he joined the Watch, he thought he was going to protect the realm, but it was just a criminal dumping ground. He hated that he had to be there because he was a _bastard_ and what else could he do. Until he realized that even as a bastard he was raised as a trueborn son. He had the same lessons as a future Great Lord. He had the same training and education and relatively teh same experiences. " _So I had to eat in the barn sometimes, it was not that big of a deal."_

 _But it was a big deal._ To her at least. He was punished for a sin he had no control over, ultimately punished for something that Ned Stark brought on himself, to protect him. Sometimes if wondered if she could ever meet Rhaegar again, what would she say to him? His decisions had caused so much pain, not just for his family but for Lyanna Stark's and ultimately for his only living son.

She turned away from the window, moving to push the desk back, but the leg caught on a hole in the floorboard. She pushed it again, carefully, not wanting to draw Grey Worm's attention. She glanced up at the door; he hadn't moved from his post yet. She frowned, kneeling and realizing that the floorboard with the hole was loose. "Oh," she exclaimed, heart thudding. Ghost peered over, but didn't get down.

Jon and she had a lot in common. Motherless, fatherless, odd relationships with their siblings...so many shared experiences that diverged here and there. This was one of them. As a child she hid things. Mostly because Viserys would take them if he thought there was value to them. Or if she was enjoying them, he would steal it so she could be miserable just like him. She would hide them in the linings of her skirts, in floorboards, and behind walls. Her treasures.

It seemed Jon Snow did the same thing.

The floorboard gave away, dust rising. She waved it away, glancing into the cold, dusty little alcove. She briefly wondered if the trinkets she had buried at that house in Braavos were still there. The only thing she'd managed to squirrel away without Viserys knowing was her mother's ring. It reached a point where she didn't think he even realized it belonged to their mother. She thumbed at the ring, twisting it, wondering what she might find in the little treasure cave that small Jon Snow created for himself.

"Only one way to find out," she murmured, reaching a hand in and folding her fingers around a wooden box. She set it aside and then found another. Plus a couple of linen wrapped pieces. She tugged out one, long and thin, the linen falling away in her hands, revealing a short, thin sword, blade dulled and hilt just big enough for a child's hand. She squealed, shaking in giddiness. "His first sword!"

It was so little—she could not imagine him that small. He was always…Jon. The idea of him as a small child, who played and ran around and carved his name into desks and hid things…it was so strange to her. She wished she had known him. Wished maybe if things had been different, maybe they would have been raised together in the Red Keep. Princess Daenerys and Prince Jon of House Targaryen. She sighed; so many things could have been different. She set the sword down and made a note to bring it to him. Perhaps they would use it for their child.

Her hand rested over the mound of her stomach, which sat in her way as she knelt on the floor, knees tucked under her, the belly resting on her thighs. She opened one of the small boxes, just a rough wooden thing, no markings or clasps. She set the lid aside and pushed through some more linen, frowning at the three large rocks that rested inside. Her thumb brushed over one. It was pretty, a shiny smooth red stone and another was dark green. The third was black. It looked a bit like dragonglass, but it was duller and had brown and gray speckled throughout it.

 _Odd._ She put the box down beside the sword and removed the other box. It was larger and deeper. She wrenched the lid free. The time it had been beneath the floor had caused the wood to swell a bit, almost fusing it together. This was the treasure box, she thought, fingers skimming over the rolls of parchment and some folded up, others loose. There was a packet of letters, wrapped with twine. She flicked open a couple, seeing they were from Benjen, his uncle, the one who died beyond the Wall.

The one she scanned spoke of the Wall, of ranging and the beauty of it, saying one day he should come to visit, he would love it, waterfalls and glaciers and mountains. _I think Robb would find it boring, but you Jon, you would spend days in the Haunted Forest, I imagine we might even lose you there, your imagination running free to be with the ghosts of the First Men._.

 _And the free folk_ , she added, smiling and setting aside the letters. She did not want to go through them further, perhaps he might like to see them. _I wonder if he even knows this is still here._

The parchment was brittle and she held her breath, opening up one of the pieces that had been folded, her eyes widening and a squeal of delight coming from her, wiggling in place, her hand covering her mouth to stifle anything further, lest Grey Worm come knocking. “Oh Jon,” she laughed, staring at the colored ink sketch, clearly drawn by a small child, the letters broken and misspelled. The images looked like great birds, but the one in the middle was the biggest. She pressed her lips together, eyes crinkling. They were dragons. Jon drew dragons when he was a boy. “Balerion, Meraxes, and Vhagar,” she murmured.

Another drawing showed a king and queen, judging from their crowns. They had smiling faces. _Jaeherys and Alysanne._ There was a wall in the background. They came to Winterfell, she remembered, from her histories. Alysanne was beloved in the North, probably the only Targaryen queen to truly win over the people there. She found more pictures, it seemed Jon was quite a little artist as a child. Aemon the Dragonknight and Daeron the Young Dragon made an appearance, those pictures rolled up with the rest.

There was a little sheaf of papers, bound in twine, she realized they were school lessons. She could tell that his handwriting got better, starting very shaky and poor, big block letters and then moving to script. Mostly his name. Some with Robb. Simple sentences. She flicked to the back, her heart falling into her stomach. Tears flooded her vision. Just when she was feeling happy, feeling that he was a carefree child drawing pictures of dragons and of his heroes, he reminded her that he was not carefree. He had dreams that would never come to pass, probably because someone told him they wouldn’t.

He’d written his name. Jon Snow. He’d written Jon Stark. It was crossed out, but beneath it, angrily scribbled over, blotchy, as if water—or tears—had fallen on it were the words that cracked her soul.

_Jon Stark, Lord of Winterfell_

Under that was the name _Jon the Bastard_.

She cried, silently, closing the little sheaf of papers, not wanting to read further. She feared what she might find. Her fingers remained on it for a moment longer, thinking of that sad little boy who just wanted to be a Lord. _He is a King now Dany, he is not fit to be a Lord, for he was always supposed to be a King._ She closed her eyes; she was glad that he was in a different place now, that he had his family, he was _wanted_. No one could go back in time, could change it, but seeing his small handwriting and thinking of the little boy who lived in this room, because he wasn’t fit to live with the rest of the family…she wiped at her eyes.

_He’s alright now Dany, he’s alright now._

She set down the little notebook, biting her lower lip, reaching in and removing one of the final pieces of parchment. If she thought that seeing his crossed out, angry, tear-laden scribble of the title he longed to have but never would, would upset her…gods she had no idea what she would find in that final parchment.

The tears dropped onto it, staining the old ink, but she didn’t care, she couldn’t stop them, her chest heaving at the image. The image of a woman with dark hair and a smile, holding the hand of a little boy with dark hair. He held a sword in his other hand. There was a castle in the background. A wolf. _Jon and Mother_.

“You stupid bastard,” she cried. How could he still do this to her? He wasn’t even _here_! He was upstairs, asleep, blissfully unaware of the emotions roiling inside of her. She set it down, not wanting to look any longer. It had been fun, seeing the little trinkets. The sword and the pictures of dragons and the strange rocks. It was something else to see his hopes and dreams, kept hidden under the floor so no one could see them. Not for many years later.

Her knees were numb under her and she held her stomach with her arms, rocking slightly over it, comforting the baby inside of her that turned, distressed by her tears. “It’s alright sweetling,” she murmured, comforting her child. “ _Mai_ is just…sad.” She wasn’t sure why. He was grown, he knew who his mother was, and he was a _king._ He had a family.

He has _me._

She reached into the box for one of the other treasures. There were a few sticks for some reason, a couple pinecones. She chuckled through her tears, picking up a small knitted doll that looked like a lumpy wolf. It was missing an eye, the other sewn on with a button. She held it under her arm, cuddling it, despite its musty smell, and picked out a folded scrap of fabric, opening it up and smiling at the embroidery.

It was a square of gray with a white wolf stitched on, rather poorly. Her thumb ran over the name on the bottom, also stitched shakily, clearly by someone who had been stabbing the fabric, by how the holes in it were pulled. **_A R Y A._**

“Bastards can’t fly their father’s standard, but they can if they inverse the colors.”

The voice startled her, soft, the northern burr thick with sleep. She yelped, dropping the fabric, looking up at the cracked open door, Jon leaning against the frame. She scowled. “Grey Worm should have told me you were there!” She glanced over her shoulder at Ghost, who was dozing peacefully, not threatened.

“I told him not to.”

“You’re like a ghost.”

“That’s my wolf,” he chuckled. He entered the room, closing the door. He looked around, hands shoved into the front pockets of a long, padded black doublet, which he wore in lieu of his gambeson. His hair was free, still wild from sleep and she could tell his eyes were heavy, still wishing he was back in that warm fluffy bed upstairs instead of this tiny drafty room. His hands turned to fists in the pockets as he glanced around the space. He smirked. “Haven’t been here since I left it.”

She shook her head, whispering. “I was getting hot water…couldn’t sleep and wanted something for my stomach.”

“You feeling alright?”

“Just the same burn in my chest.” The bigger the baby got it seemed the more her chest burned, especially after eating. She gazed at the little treasures surrounding her, lifting her eyes back to his, not wanting him to change the subject. He was staring ahead out the window, lost somewhere in his memories. “She kept you with the dogs,” she spit out.

He closed his eyes briefly. “I could have had it worse.”

“No, you could have but you also could have had it better. You didn’t have to be here.”

“It was a good space, warm in the cold. Had a breeze in the summertime.”

“I don’t care.”

“I was off the kitchens, I could get food whenever I wanted. Half the time Robb and Theon hung out here with me.” He walked over to the desk, running his thumb over the “Hate Theon” mark. He chuckled. “I think I did this after he tried to get me into trouble when he and Robb got into the ale. Of course they believed that I had corrupted them. The bastard.”

She scowled, hating the Westerosi traditions more than anything in that moment. It was all she could do to get rid of them, bit by bit, tearing them out, forcing them into the new world. A world where bastards weren’t blamed for their father’s wandering eyes or mother’s wanton desires. She frowned at him. “How’d you even find me here?”

“One of the maids could not contain herself, came rushing up to say that the queen was in the kitchens, the servant’s quarters. She was ashamed on your behalf.”

“Oh gods.”

He chuckled, climbing down onto the floor beside her, drawing her towards his chest and dropping a kiss to her hairline, murmuring. “I don’t think the Winterfell smallfolk have quite understood that you are a queen of the people.”

“I’ll stay here tonight if it will make them believe.”

“I am sure you will.”

They sat on the floor for a few moments more, the cold beginning to seep into her, fingers numb and her feet long ago dead to her. He was going to have to help her up, maybe even carry her until she could regain sensation. She sighed, picking up the drawing of the dragons, smiling. “You were a good artist Jon Snow.”

“Hmm, just dreaming.” He turned pink, she could tell, watching the flush rise above his beard. He sighed again at her continued frown, the furrow in her brow, still upset at his circumstances. _I will never not be angry_ , she vowed. “Ned was protecting me, Dany.”

“I don’t care what he was doing. No excuses.”

“I learned to fight with Robb, was in the same lessons as him with the Maester. Ned let her put me here, away from her trueborn children, but I was there where it counted. I went with him when he toured the North, I was always there.” He shrugged, whispering. “Almost like he was preparing me to be a king when he was preparing Robb to be a lord.”

“He let you go to the Night’s Watch.”

He shrugged, brushing that off, whispering. “I didn’t have much of a choice there, when he became the Hand. Catelyn was not going to let me stay.”

“You were six and ten!”

“I was a man.”

“You were a child,” she growled. She would never get over it as long as she lived. She long suspected that Ned allowed him to go to the Night’s Watch in the same way that no one worried about Aemon Targaryen potentially threatening the existence of the realm; they were bound to their vows for life. He could never be a king, he could never threaten them. She sighed, picking up the photo of him with the woman that he’d drawn as his mother, whispering. “Was this from a dream or did you just think she had dark hair like you?”

He shook his head, arm around her, drawing her closer. He touched the picture, dragging his finger along the woman’s smiling face. “I don’t know, I don’t remember…maybe. I had dreams. Like you did. Wolf dreams.”

“Dragon dreams.”

“I guess I was right,” he whispered, kissing the top of her silver head. He smiled into it, chuckling. She lifted her face, wondering what was funny. His eyebrows lifted, amused. “Imagine the lies Ned Stark would have to tell if I had been born with your hair.”

That had her laughing, not just at the thought of someone coming up with an explanation for Northern Ned Stark having a son with silver hair, but the image of _him_ with her hair. It was laughable. His thin, morose expressions and dark eyes with silver hair. “Someone would have to think you a ghost. So pale and silver as you would be.”

“You’re a bit of a ghost yourself,” he laughed, pinching at her nose, tweaking some redness into her cheeks. He kissed the offended spot and she wrinkled it up, smiling against the kiss he dropped to her mouth. “My silver queen.”

She closed her eyes, cuddling against him, savoring his warmth. The linen square in her hand wrapped around her fingers. She showed it to him. “Arya did this, huh?”

“She hated needlepoint,” he laughed, taking it from her. He glanced down beside her knee, eyes lighting up. “My first sword! Gods, I forgot I had this.”

She gathered up everything, the pictures, the little notebook, the strange box of rocks. “I’m keeping all of these things.”

“Oh gods, Dany no!”

“Yes,” she stressed.

“Why?”

“Because.” She turned as best she could, her belly in the way. He rested his hand on it, no longer frowning, but entertained by her conviction. She tapped his nose, whispering, no longer joking. “Because when I was a little girl I used to hide things too. I used to hide my dreams, the things that were mine, that no one could take from me. I hid them behind a stone in the wall of my bedroom in the house in Braavos. The one I told you about with the red door and the lemon tree. My home.” _The only home I ever really knew._ She sighed, gazing at the open floorboard. “Maybe it was just something that you and I share because of our shared blood, but I think it’s the shared experience. You dreamed of dragons and a different life. Just like me . You kept it hidden because you didn’t think you deserved it.”

He cocked his head, whispering. “Dany…”

“You do, just like I deserved it. Just like _we_ deserve it.” She took the little wolf doll from under her arm and set it on her belly, covering it with their hands, squeezing tight, eyes focused on him. “Our family is here Jon. We found each other, we made our family. We deserve it.” She lifted her face, kissing him lightly. He pressed a little firmer, arm breaking free and wrapping around her, pulling her as close as she could be with her numb folded up legs and her giant belly between them.

They separated a moment later, foreheads touching. “I love you,” he whispered, squeezing her hands.

“I love you too.” She kissed him one more time, before she lifted the wolf toy up into his face. She grinned, eyes widening. “Did you sleep with this? Does he have a name?”

The pink on his face returned, his eyes closing, mortified. “Um…yes. Nan made it for me when I had pox.”

“Did you name him?” He mumbled something, getting up to his feet. She laughed. “What was that?”

He sighed, rolling his eyes and offering her his hands, helping her up to her shaky feet. Her knees quaked from being under her for so long. “Wolfie.”

“Oh Jon! I love you!” She hugged him tight, head on his chest. Wolfie was coming with her. They’d clean him up and give him to their babe. They stood in place for a moment, her gaze landing on the box of rocks. She frowned, pointing to them. “And what’s with the rocks?”

“I’m not telling you.”

“Why not?” she pouted.

“You’ll make fun.”

“Jon I will of course make fun but I want to know. Just tell me now or else I’ll think of the most embarrassing thing.” She laughed when he picked up the box, opening it back up and showed her the rocks. She shrugged at them. “They’re rocks.”

He closed his eyes, sighing hard. “Dragon eggs.”

 _He thought they were dragon eggs. He took them home and put them in a box and wrapped them up. Oh my gods. I might kill him._ She made a sound. She had no idea what it was, but he dropped the box of rocks and grabbed hold of her when she fell forward, mouth on his, breath muffled and a soft moan leaving her lips. _I love this man so much._ She managed to break away, still holding him, laughing at his surprised look. “Jon, you are…you are mine. I love you so much.”

They hugged again, her head on his chest. He patted her belly, the baby kicking at him. “I better get some food inside of you before this one comes out screaming for my head.”

 _Yes but first…_ She lifted her hand to his face, cupping his cheek, her thumb brushing over his lower lip. He frowned a little, no doubt confused over her sudden tenderness. She closed her eyes, tears gathering again. “I wish I could go back and tell little Jon that things were going to get better,” she breathed against his mouth. She nuzzled against him, breathing soft. “That he would be a king and he would find love. He would find family and acceptance and he would be a husband and a father.” She wiped at the tear that leaked out of the corner of his eye, before he had a chance to even realize he was upset. She sniffed. “Because if I could do that, I’d tell him that there was a little girl across the Narrow Sea who was a princess but grew up as a pauper, who would one day be his family. Who loved him when he was just a bastard.”

His face screwed up into an almost sob, unable to process, but she understood the pain that washed over him. The confusion and realization. He gripped her hard, arms tight around her. Their baby nestled between them. He kissed her brow hard, eyes closed, swaying slightly. “Gods I love you so much,” he whispered. “More than anything in this world.”

“I know.”

They stood together in his childhood bedroom for a few minutes longer, finally breaking when her stomach grumbled, in need of food. He glanced at the fireplace, shivering. “I did forget how cold it got here without the fire.”

She wiped her eyes, looking to the little bed, chuckling. “Think we could come back here later?”

He followed her gaze to the bed, laughing. “Are you serious? We’ll break that thing.”

“Challenge accepted.”

“Dany that wasn’t what I meant!”

“No, we’ll be back.” She took her now freezing mug of tea from the fireplace, while he gathered the items and set them on the desk, for when they returned. She kept the little wolf toy in her hand, walking out and through the corridors, surprising the servants and cooks in the kitchen who were preparing the food for breaking everyone’s fast in the Great Hall.

Later that day after most of their host arrived from White Harbor, they sat around one of the tables in Sansa’s solar, the main meeting area for the Lady of Winterfell, Wardeness of the North. They were discussing the Iron Islands and Yara Greyjoy’s refusal to risk her ships bringing supplies farther north of Deepwood Motte. Sansa was complaining about something, she really was not paying attention, when a piece of parchment pushed over from Jon, who was seated beside her.

She frowned, picking up the parchment, unrolling it and staring at the image. Her smile broke wide over her face, the beauty of it. He’d drawn them, their baby, Ghost, and the dragons. She ran her thumb over the bottom, his writing now tiny and cramped, no longer the big blocks of childhood. _Dany and Jon Targaryen._ She continued to smile at it, not realizing that everyone was staring at her, Sansa having called her name.

“Huh?”

“Your Grace, I was saying, is there something more interesting than discussing the grain stores for the next six months? We’re sorely lacking at Karhold and Last Hearth, Lord Manderly is withholding them from us,” Sansa griped, glaring over at the fat lord who waved his hand, not bothered in the slightest.

She blinked, knowing they needed to discuss this. Except it could wait. She smiled again, pushing back from her chair, hoisting herself up as Davos and Tyrion jumped slightly, upset that she was not waiting for assistance. _I’m eight moons with child, not a bloody cripple_ , she thought. She took Jon’s hand, tugging him from his seat, the parchment in her hand. “Not more interesting, Lady Sansa, just more important, please excuse the King and I.”

“Your Graces,” Tyrion began, but Davos stopped him with a shake of his head.

They left the library, embracing in the corridor. She kissed him lightly, smiling wide. “Come,” she ordered, tugging him with her, giggling. “I can think of something we can do that is a better use of our time than listening to your sister complain of the same thing again.”

He smiled. “Oh?”

“I had the servants light the fire in your old room and put new furs on the bed.”

“You what!?”

Dany giggled, tugging him further down the corridors towards his old bedroom. “Tell me Jon Snow, although I’m fairly certain I know the answer, you ever get a girl in your bedroom?”

“You know the answer to that.”

She pushed him into the kitchens towards the room, grinning after him, his eyebrow arching slyly. “Well you’re about to say you not only got a girl in there, but a queen.”

Jon just grinned, pulling her backwards into the room and kicked the door shut with his boot, her squeal drowned out by the loud squeak of the hinges.

**fin.**


End file.
